A Gentle Passing
by aficionada-de-libros
Summary: The message did not come as a complete surprise. Still, he would have preferred if it had not come at all. His brain seemed strangely disinclined to accept reality. - Three friends need to say a final farewell. Character death.


_**A/N: This is a story I had no intention of writing, until a few days ago, when I got word that a dear friend of mine had very suddenly passed away. Diagnosis of a terminal disease and death happened within a week. We didn't have a chance to say good-bye since I was out of town, and news travelled too slowly.**_

 _ **So this is me saying good-bye. Maybe there is someone somewhere out there who will find some measure of comfort, release, or relief in what I wrote. Know that you are not alone.**_

 _ **Warnings: illness and death.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, but the experience is.**_

 _ **˜LOTR˜LOTR˜LOTR˜**_

 **A Gentle Passing**

The message from Ithilien did not come as a complete surprise. Still, Aragorn would have preferred if it had not come at all.

 _Aragorn –_

 _Faramir has been taken grievously ill. Please come as soon as you can._

 _Legolas_

Though obviously written in a hurry, the elegant hand of his best friend was unmistakeable. Re-reading the short missive once more, after having done so at least two dozen times already, the King of Gondor rolled it up again and carefully slipped it into a hidden drawer in his desk. With a last look around he took his bag of healing supplies and went out into the courtyard, where the messenger from the Elven colony waited with their ready-packed horses.

Arwen approached her husband and gently took his hands in hers. "Are you sure you do not want me to come?" she asked, although she knew his answer in advance.

"No, _meleth-nín_. You are needed here. Eldarion still needs your counsel in running my affairs in my absence. And I do hope to be back in a fortnight. Either Faramir is better by then, or at least well enough to bring him and tend to him here, or ..." Aragorn swallowed thickly, unable to finish.

Tenderly, Arwen brushed slender fingers through his soft silver hair. "Then tell him I am sending my love, and that my prayers are with him. And stay as long as you need. I know how dearly you love him."

Aragorn rested his forehead against hers, drawing strength and courage from her love and her unconditional support. " _Le melin,_ " he whispered, kissing the crown of her head and letting his lips linger on her sun-warmed hair for a few moments. Then, after a last embrace, he mounted his horse and rode off towards Ithilien.

 _ **˜LOTR˜LOTR˜LOTR˜**_

The room was quiet and warm, the rays of the afternoon sun painting delicate patterns on the blanket that covered the fragile form underneath. No sound was heard except for the laboured breaths of the sick man and the occasional soft splash as his Elven friend wet a cloth in a shallow bowl of water and carefully pressed it to dry, cracked lips. It was the only moisture the deathly ill body tolerated anymore. Anything else that the ill man tried to swallow was rejected immediately, only adding to the terrible pain he was in, so they had quickly given up the attempt.

Weak, slightly stiff fingers curled around strong, ever-youthful ones as another wave of pain took hold of the failing body, causing it to break a cold sweat. "Try not to hold your breath," the elf whispered for what must have been the hundredth time in the past two days since he had found the man collapsed on the path leading to his house and taken him in to care for him.

It was not yet time for another dose of poppy seed juice, not that it seemed to help a lot anyway. The Elven healer Legolas had sent for upon finding Faramir had given the man a thorough examination and then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, pulled out a small vial of the strongest pain medicine in his possession. "Send for his children, and tell them to hurry," he had said to Legolas after writing down instructions for the administration of the poppy seed juice.

And Legolas had done so, but not before sending a messenger to Minas Tirith. Faramir's children had come, said their tearful farewells to their father, and been sent home again by him. "I don't want you sitting around waiting for me to die," he had said, adding with a spark of his characteristic sense of humour: "No need to rush things." But of course everyone knew that they would return every day to visit their father as long as he still lived, and that Legolas would send for them again immediately upon any significant change in Faramir's condition.

Things had become gradually worse since then. The pain attacks got longer and more intense, the breaks in between shorter. It was, as Legolas well knew, a last effort of the body to fight the sickness. The pain would fade away as the dying process dulled the senses. For now, though, the only thing he could do was hold his friend's hand and reassure him that he was not alone in his world of agony.

 _ **˜LOTR˜LOTR˜LOTR˜**_

Legolas heard the frantic hoof beats long before they actually drew near, and he knew his best friend was about to arrive. He was glad for it, too, because over the last few hours Faramir's hold on consciousness had become weaker.

When the horses stopped in front of the house, Legolas rose from his chair beside Faramir's bed and went out to greet Aragorn.

"How is he?" the king asked the prince as they embraced.

"Sleeping, at the moment." The elf ushered the man into the house, trusting his Elven comrade to take care of the horses.

In a few sentences, Legolas summed up what had happened and what he knew, while Aragorn shed his travelling clothes and thoroughly washed his hands. Then both of them quietly entered the sickroom, which Aragorn recognised as Legolas' own bedroom.

The elf stayed by the door while the human healer approached the bed. All thought fled the king as he sunk down on the edge of the bed, almost timidly reaching out to grasp the dying steward's hand.

Time seemed to stand still as Aragorn tried to take it all in. Before him lay but a mere shadow of the man his friend once had been. It was an old man's body – much like his own, he knew – but so emaciated that his features seemed distorted. The skin of the face that Aragorn remembered as tanned and soft and slightly wrinkled was now sallow and stretched taut over high cheekbones. The bony hands looked the same way and were sickly cold to the touch. The breathing, which would only seem laboured and irregular to most people, had a distinct pattern to it which the healer knew well, and dreaded. All these outward signs taken together told Aragorn everything he needed to know. His brain, however, seemed disinclined to accept reason.

A slight tightening of Faramir's hand under his own shook him from his momentary stupor. Bright blue eyes opened and a smile spread over the beloved face. "My King," he breathed. "You have come!"

"As soon as I heard," Aragorn replied. "How do you feel, my friend?"

Faramir faintly waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. "Old," he quipped, and both men chuckled. "Sick," he added after a moment, feeling another wave of pain starting to spread through his body. He closed his eyes against the evening light that suddenly hurt his eyes, and stiffened at the searing pain that seemed to consume him.

Aragorn reacted immediately. He placed one hand on his friend's forehead, the other one more lightly on his abdomen from where the pain appeared to originate, judging by Faramir's posture. Trying to sense where the pain was worst, he then sent a short burst of healing strength towards the other man. Faramir relaxed and sunk deeper into the pillows behind his back that were keeping his upper body somewhat elevated in order to aid his breathing. "Thank you," he whispered.

"May I examine you, so as to determine how to best help you?" Aragorn then asked.

Faramir studied him for a moment, in his mind debating whether to refuse this futile effort. But if he knew anything about his friend and king, it was that he hated feeling uninformed. Aragorn had an inherent need to always know what he was dealing with, no matter how unpleasant or dangerous. So Faramir nodded. "Of course."

Legolas watched intently as Aragorn performed a systematic examination, his attention fixed on the minutest change in the healer's expression. There was nothing to be seen, until the moment that he started to carefully palpate the other man's abdomen.

There were two large, distinct lumps that shouldn't be there.

It was what Aragorn had suspected, but refused to believe – until now.

The defeat and dejection in his face were unmistakeable.

Carefully Aragorn pulled Faramir's shirt back down, and the blanket back up, gently tucking it around the frail body. He opened his mouth to say something, but found that he couldn't. Tears flooded his eyes and he hung his head to hide them.

Reading his friend's thoughts, Faramir took Aragorn's hand and squeezed it. "Aragorn, look at me," he asked quietly. When the other man did, silver eyes swimming with tears, he squeezed his hand again. Then, in a sad but calm voice, he said: "It is all right, Aragorn. I know I am dying."

 _ **˜LOTR˜LOTR˜LOTR˜**_

"I wish _ada_ was here," Aragorn choked out, his voice slightly muffled by Legolas' tunic as he allowed himself a moment of falling apart in his best friend's embrace.

They had left the sickroom for a short while as Faramir had fallen asleep under the influence of another dose of poppy seed juice. Legolas, worried about his friend, had pushed him down on a chair at the table and put some bread and milk before him. But his gentle "Eat, Estel" was all it took for the proud King of Gondor to burst into tears.

"It is not fair," he sobbed quietly. "The blood of Númenor flows in his veins. He should not fall ill like that!"

Legolas said nothing, only tightening his grip on his best friend. They both knew that Faramir's brush with the Black Breath all those decades ago had left him with a more fragile health than he should have by rights. Also, he had been somewhat poorly ever since his beloved Éowyn's death two years ago. All of them, even Faramir himself, had attributed it to his grief. Now they were not so sure anymore ... not that it mattered.

"I wish _ada_ was here," Aragorn repeated, a little calmer now, but in a small voice that was rather reminiscent of a young Estel. "He'd know what to do."

Legolas crouched down in front of his best friend, and gently wiped the tears away. Cradling the man's face in his warm hands, he waited until Aragorn locked eyes with him before he coaxed the king and healer back to the surface with three simple words: "So do you."

 _ **˜LOTR˜LOTR˜LOTR˜**_

As the hours passed, it became clear that Faramir would not see another dawn. When Legolas quietly suggested sending for Faramir's children, the man firmly refused. "This is not what I want them to remember," he said. "We have said our farewells. There is nothing more to do than to wait for the end, and I would not have them do that."

So Legolas conceded, and the three friends settled back down. Faramir, though growing ever weaker, was no longer in such agonising pain as before. His lungs increasingly struggled to take in enough air, so speaking was becoming impossible. He seemed content, though, to have his two best friends by his side.

At some point during the night, when breathing became a battle, Aragorn slid into bed behind Faramir, propping him up with his own body. The closeness seemed to calm them both.

Unbidden memories invaded Legolas' mind, memories of his father and a time, over a thousand years ago, when he had held him like that through endless nights of illness and pain after a devastating injury. He remembered feeling scared and helpless then. Now, he only felt helpless. Mortality was still a concept he could not fully grasp, but he would scoff at anyone who dared to call it the "Gift of Men". Too often had he seen and experienced the pain that death brought. This time was no different.

The lack of air pushed Faramir into a flare of mild panic when, in one of those blurred moments between sleep and wakefulness, he tried and failed to draw a full breath. Legolas caught his flailing hands and gently held them while Aragorn used a light healing touch to ease his discomfort.

"Do not be afraid," Legolas soothed, reaching up to tenderly card his fingers through the wavy white hair. "You are not alone."

Closing his eyes, Faramir leaned into the soft touch. "I am so tired," he whispered on a barely-there breath.

Bright tears fell from Aragorn's eyes and he pulled his friend closer. "Then sleep, my friend," he replied, all but unable to keep his voice even. "We are here."

With a last effort, Faramir lifted his hand to rest it on Aragorn's and gifted Legolas with a grateful, affectionate look. "Thank you, my brothers," he smiled.

Then his eyes slid shut

and his breath stilled

forever.


End file.
